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dragonlady7Z dropped me off at work today so he could have the car, expressly so he could go grocery shopping. Which is pretty awesome. I don't like grocery shopping all that much, largely because it just takes so long, but he totally digs it. I like shopping with him, because while it's a huge chunk out of my day, at least it's time spent with him, but he really seems to like shopping for its own sake, when it's food.
So he picked me up and had not only gone shopping, but also had put together a menu schedule for the week, which is neatly written out and posted on the fridge.
And when I arrived home, we sat and ate a fresh baguette with tzatziki and gruyere while the quiche he had made baked.
(He'd made the pie crust himself as well, from his grandmother's recipe.)
So that's been lovely. I did not, in fact, use the index cards at work, although I did make them, and kept them in my pocket. My voice nearly failed a couple of times, but judicious applications of cough drops and tomato juice (oddly enough; but orange juice stings too much to drink it) kept me just barely talking.
I managed to phone my sister Fiona as well-- her birthday is tomorrow, so I chatted with her while waiting for Z to pick me up.
I have some sort of amphibian or possibly alien living in my throat, which is unpleasant, but other than that I don't feel too unhealthy. I sort of hope it clears up at least a bit by Christmas-- which won't be the same if I can't carol.
My mother, it turns out, is actually delaying Christmas for me. They will be holding their usual Christmas festivities on the day after, just so I can be there. Including opening presents, and cinnamon rolls, and the whole thing. I'm so excited I can barely form sentences.
So... One week from tonight, I will be loading up the car, and we'll leave early in the morning to be there in time for lunch/dinner at noon. Yay! Yay! Yay!
...
Whew. Gotta chill a bit...
Z is reading Joy of Cooking and telling me about all the great things in it. He is really funny about food. He just found a recipe for cassata cake and was totally floored by the thought of, of all things, how awesome a cassata wedding cake would be.
"Uh," I said, a little disconcerted, "should we get married just to have one?"
"Dude," he said, "It would be awesome."
I am not really sure what he meant by that, but I do admit, I love cassata cake too, although perhaps not as much as he does.
In entirely other news, the other day Z came home and went to feed the fish and Gibson was missing. He was just... not in his bit of the tank. He wasn't there. Z panicked and searched the floor-- had he somehow managed to jump out through the tiny opening in the lid? Shirley did, once, and survived, but barely.
But the wizened awful dried thing he found on the floor was not, in fact, Gibson's corpse-- it was a jade tree leaf.
He finally found Gibson. The Palace's dividers had come loose in one place, and we had noticed but had observed the fish carefully and determined that they wouldn't fit through it. However: Gibson did. He got into Mai Tai's section.
These guys are betta fish. Bettas are Siamese Fighting Fish. The males will fight to the death over territory. They're insanely aggressive.
Gibson was lying on the floor of the tank with his fins in shreds. Horrified, Z scooped him out and dumped him into his own bit of the tank. Gibson flipped out and swam all over, and then realized that he was alone, and Mai Tai wasn't in with him anymore.
He's fine. His fins are, er, a different shape now, but his swimming fins are undamaged, and he's behaving as though absolutely nothing happened. Mai Tai has, of course, not a mark on him, as Gibson is a complete and utter wuss. But we're glad, because if Gibson had had even a micromilligram of backbone Mai Tai probably would've killed him.
But I guess it's not true that bettas fight to the death-- they just fight until one gives up. To his credit, Gibson must've taken a while to give up.
We do feel bad for him, but he's perky as hell now, and it's not like he's lost any blood or anything. There isn't a mark on his body, just his fins. Poor baby. Poor, stupid baby.
Al is a bit worrying of late-- he's mostly butterflyish and aggressive, his beautiful self, but he spends a lot of time asleep. He goes into his tube and stops moving and lies there. He's very old, though, as bettas go, and we figure he's probably about ninety in fish years. So we're sort of Zen about his possible fate. If he goes, he goes, and if he doesn't, well then, bonus.
So he picked me up and had not only gone shopping, but also had put together a menu schedule for the week, which is neatly written out and posted on the fridge.
And when I arrived home, we sat and ate a fresh baguette with tzatziki and gruyere while the quiche he had made baked.
(He'd made the pie crust himself as well, from his grandmother's recipe.)
So that's been lovely. I did not, in fact, use the index cards at work, although I did make them, and kept them in my pocket. My voice nearly failed a couple of times, but judicious applications of cough drops and tomato juice (oddly enough; but orange juice stings too much to drink it) kept me just barely talking.
I managed to phone my sister Fiona as well-- her birthday is tomorrow, so I chatted with her while waiting for Z to pick me up.
I have some sort of amphibian or possibly alien living in my throat, which is unpleasant, but other than that I don't feel too unhealthy. I sort of hope it clears up at least a bit by Christmas-- which won't be the same if I can't carol.
My mother, it turns out, is actually delaying Christmas for me. They will be holding their usual Christmas festivities on the day after, just so I can be there. Including opening presents, and cinnamon rolls, and the whole thing. I'm so excited I can barely form sentences.
So... One week from tonight, I will be loading up the car, and we'll leave early in the morning to be there in time for lunch/dinner at noon. Yay! Yay! Yay!
...
Whew. Gotta chill a bit...
Z is reading Joy of Cooking and telling me about all the great things in it. He is really funny about food. He just found a recipe for cassata cake and was totally floored by the thought of, of all things, how awesome a cassata wedding cake would be.
"Uh," I said, a little disconcerted, "should we get married just to have one?"
"Dude," he said, "It would be awesome."
I am not really sure what he meant by that, but I do admit, I love cassata cake too, although perhaps not as much as he does.
In entirely other news, the other day Z came home and went to feed the fish and Gibson was missing. He was just... not in his bit of the tank. He wasn't there. Z panicked and searched the floor-- had he somehow managed to jump out through the tiny opening in the lid? Shirley did, once, and survived, but barely.
But the wizened awful dried thing he found on the floor was not, in fact, Gibson's corpse-- it was a jade tree leaf.
He finally found Gibson. The Palace's dividers had come loose in one place, and we had noticed but had observed the fish carefully and determined that they wouldn't fit through it. However: Gibson did. He got into Mai Tai's section.
These guys are betta fish. Bettas are Siamese Fighting Fish. The males will fight to the death over territory. They're insanely aggressive.
Gibson was lying on the floor of the tank with his fins in shreds. Horrified, Z scooped him out and dumped him into his own bit of the tank. Gibson flipped out and swam all over, and then realized that he was alone, and Mai Tai wasn't in with him anymore.
He's fine. His fins are, er, a different shape now, but his swimming fins are undamaged, and he's behaving as though absolutely nothing happened. Mai Tai has, of course, not a mark on him, as Gibson is a complete and utter wuss. But we're glad, because if Gibson had had even a micromilligram of backbone Mai Tai probably would've killed him.
But I guess it's not true that bettas fight to the death-- they just fight until one gives up. To his credit, Gibson must've taken a while to give up.
We do feel bad for him, but he's perky as hell now, and it's not like he's lost any blood or anything. There isn't a mark on his body, just his fins. Poor baby. Poor, stupid baby.
Al is a bit worrying of late-- he's mostly butterflyish and aggressive, his beautiful self, but he spends a lot of time asleep. He goes into his tube and stops moving and lies there. He's very old, though, as bettas go, and we figure he's probably about ninety in fish years. So we're sort of Zen about his possible fate. If he goes, he goes, and if he doesn't, well then, bonus.
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Date: 2005-12-20 04:20 am (UTC)